


Windshield

by Arsenic



Series: Discipline and Punish [27]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-04
Updated: 2007-11-04
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:49:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Bob's still in prison.





	Windshield

"Honestly, I think it makes sense for me to go Japanese."

"That's because you're a pussy," Bob told Frank without bothering to look up from reading about the specs on the newly-released Hybrids.

"Look, I hate to admit it, particularly when you don't seem to have noticed, but I'm not very tall."

Bob had noticed. "I can rig the pedals, bring in the handlebar."

"Sure, but doesn't it just make more sense for me to get a bike that fits me?"

"It makes sense to get the bike that runs best and has the most history of running best."

"Fine. If you say so."

Bob did, but he didn't really feel the need to repeat himself. He didn't, to be honest, feel the need to be having this argument at all, except that Frank had been trying his hardest to distract Bob the last couple of days, and Bob was not above appreciating the effort.

"I'm going to need suggestions, then."

Not unaware that they were still speaking entirely hypothetically and that asking this question was just an asshole thing to do, Bob asked, "How are you going to afford this bike, again?"

Frank didn't even blink. He said, "Easy, I plan on becoming a kept man."

Bob wasn't enough of a jerk to take a crack at Mikey. It was too much like taking a crack at-- Bob stopped himself just short of thinking the name. He had a rule, no thinking it until he could do so without wanting to kill someone. He really wasn't there yet. Not even close.

Frank said softly, "Bob. Suggestions?"

Bob blinked, and made himself think. "Probably one of the Dyna models. Or maybe a Sportster."

"Tell me the difference," Frank said.

Bob did. Even the details Frank probably didn't give a shit about. If Bob was honest, _especially_ those.

 

*

"These are not the easiest things in the world to find," Frank admitted a few nights later and set a small cardboard box in front of Bob. The box had been opened, but all their mail was opened; they were in prison.

Bob peered in the box to find hard caramel candy, the kind that almost every mother in his neighborhood--well, every mother but his--had known how to make. "Russian candy? Where _did_ you find it?"

"Online Russian market. My mom lets me use her credit card for emergencies."

"Um--"

"You were clearly having a sweet tooth emergency, Bryar, don't even try and deny it."

Bob took the bag of candies from the box and opened it, fishing inside for one. He offered it to Frank. "Have you ever had one of these?"

"My neighborhood tended more toward cannoli. Or, when that failed, Hershey's syrup and milk." Frank shrugged.

Bob handed him the candy. "Don't chew."

"That's just mean, you know I suck at being patient." Frank thought about it for a second. "No pun intended."

"Just fucking put it in your mouth, Iero."

Frank made a face, but did as told. Around the candy he said, "That's really sweet."

Bob said, "Yeah," and took one for himself. The sweetness was intense enough that he didn't have to think about anything else, at least for a while.

 

*

"Bob," Gerard said, like the word was magic. Bob could hear it even through the fucking low-quality phone lines.

"Hey Gee," he said softly. Gerard looked good. His hair was still a little longer than it probably should have been, but he was wearing a new shirt, a plain black tee, and the jaguar tooth around his neck, and he looked...clean. It was more complicated than that, but that was the best word Bob could come up with--like some of the worst of his four years inside had washed off. "How's Mikey?"

"He has really nice friends. Spencer wants me to teach an art class, can you believe it? I bet they don't tell the parents who's teaching at that place."

Bob made a note to fix Spencer's car for free--if he ever needed that sort of thing--when Bob got out. "You been going to the center with Mikey?"

"Well. I interviewed for a few jobs. It's-- Well, I mean, you remember how hard it was for Mikey. I kinda wish I'd finished school, but that's kinda like wishing I'd never become a junkie, which is sort of--" Gerard glanced to the side for a second. "I don't regret being here." He looked back at Bob. "I should, I guess, but then..."

Bob nodded. He didn't regret it either. Not for all the time lost to him, not even for all the time lost to _them_ , if it meant having Gerard. There were things that were worth considerable amounts of hardship. He maybe should have regretted _Gerard_ having been in here. That seemed like the sort of thing a real boyfriend would do, the sort of selflessness that someone in a relationship was supposed to have, but Bob couldn't, he just couldn't wish Gerard's scars away, not if it meant wishing Gerard away entirely.

"Anyway," Gerard said, and smiled at Bob like he was the fucking sun, "I had this plan, I think you'll like it. Since I'm meeting all of Mikey's people, I thought I'd draw them, you know, so you and Frank would know who they were when we told you things about them. I brought you the first picture today. You have to show it to Frank, obviously, tell him about it. This one is Brian, the guy who runs the center, and the one who came to tell me when Mikey was sick."

Bob nodded. He remembered.

"I think you'd like him; he's kinda hard not to, very chill. And he-- He really cares, I mean, about the guys who work for him and the people who come into the center and it's really sort of amazing he doesn't get completely worn out. He's trying to help me find a job. They all are."

"Good," Bob said. It would have been nice to have some contacts on the outside who ran fully legitimate businesses, but even the restaurants in Bob's neighborhood had often had mafia ties. Bob wasn't getting Gerard mixed up in that.

"Linda made Frank ginger snaps, but some are for you. She put brandy in yours, because I asked her to. She doesn't keep that stuff around the house, obviously, but she knows the other people in her building and one of them tends to have that kind of stuff, so she borrowed some, because I said you liked it, and she packaged them up separately, so just ask Frank for them when you get back, right?"

Bob nodded. "Sounds good."

Gerard glowed. "Is there anything else you need? I can get you almost anything, so long as it's something they'll let you have. You can just tell me and I'll--"

"Gee, you don't need to--"

"Shut up, Bob Bryar," Gerard said almost-cheerfully, but Bob could hear the underlying ribbon of seriousness. "Just shut up. You took care of me for over two years. My turn. My turn."

Against his thigh, Bob clenched his fist so hard that his nails drove into his skin. Gerard was scowling. Bob wanted to suck his upper lip until it straightened, stroke at Gerard's back until he forgot what was bothering him and got a little bit demanding. Instead Bob said, "Okay," and was very, very careful not to put his hand to the glass, not to say, "It was never like that," not to say, "I miss you, I miss you, I miss you."

"Really?" Gerard asked, his eyes going wide. Bob smiled for him. Gerard grinned.

 

*

"Mikey wasn't kidding when he said the guy had a lot of ink."

Bob looked sideways at Frank. As someone who had a decent amount of ink himself, Bob _really_ didn't think Frank had a lot of space to talk. But Frank was still talking. "It's nice stuff. Maybe I'll ask him who does his art, you know, when I meet him. Gerard's so fucking amazing, that I can tell that from--" Frank stopped.

Bob said, "It's okay." He took a breath. "It's okay, you can talk about him."

"I've been trying not--"

"I know," Bob said softly. He couldn't say thank you, so he just nodded and hoped that Frank understood.

Frank said, "Okay, then I should tell you that my mom wants you to tell him to get his hair cut, she thinks it'll help in interviews and he won't listen to Mikey, and I think-- Um, when Mikey first got out, I had to tell him to cut it, too."

Bob frowned for a second. "It's different. Gerard didn't-- There wasn't the same--" Bob wasn't sure how to broach the fact that Mikey had grown his hair out to make it look like Frank was forcing the issue of cross-dressing. Mikey had been fucking braiding his hair at the sides by the time he'd left.

"I know. But you gonna tell me you never used it to, um--" Frank gestured completely meaninglessly with his hands. All the same, Bob felt the soft strands of Gerard's hair in his fingers, the way he would sometimes bury them there when he was fucking Gerard, if he didn't want to pull at the collar.

"Oh."

Frank nodded. "My mom goes to a place that will do it for cheap. But he just won't go."

"I'll take care of it."

Frank looked down at the drawing. Softly, he said, "He still needs you."

Bob glanced where Frank was looking. Clearly they weren't seeing the same thing.


End file.
